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miss you

i miss your warm embrace
your delicate light blue
eyes in which i tried to
close but would not stay shut
your loud irascible voice
(the same one that cried
for help at the end) the way
in which youd relish in sunlight
shade the wind silence and
raven caws you told me once

to think of you

whenever I saw a raven and
that I had made you feel like
you had at least done one thing
right in life and how I had taught
you that love need not be a volcano
but could be a light pink cherry
blossom unfurling

I wish I could hold your hand
and get a text from you that simply
said, hey

but I won’t, not now, not anymore, this
morning I was listening to a recording of
Bertrand Russell who was asked by Alan
Watts, do you think death is just the gradual
disintegration of the body and he said, why
surely, yes, I see no reason whatsoever that
the mind should persist once the body has died…

I just hope

that there’s somewhere nice
for the soul to go

the sound of an
old friend sobbing
outside the door
in the hall on his
way out after saying
goodbye to his friend
in a hospice bed

we’re all doomed to an
unknowable unnamable

intangible inevitable

everlasting bliss

it’s morning, not enough
sleep last night it rained
or misted, the sidewalks
are dark and torn up the
pg and e men woke me
up to check the meters
they say something is
wrong with the gas line
the dow is down 100 points
coffee bitter, no milk or honey
and the sky is in a sad mood
and something about the day
reminds me of a lost gentleness
also heartache headache
legache backache soulache

a jackhammer violence
in the hushed silence of
my courtyard garden

scentlessness, where did
the jasmine flowers go? have
they run away from their homes?
on the vines? mad at the air?
the earth? the humans? surely
not the earth, no

i want to tell you that i love you

but i can’t because you have died

i want to tell you that i miss you

but i can’t because you have died

jackhammer, silence

its not really about how
well we have lived but how
well we have died

the poet wrote
about willow trees
dreamcatchers and
of ravens encouraging
hummingbirds to pierce
the black blanket of sky
to let the starlight in

and called it
poems written in
the age of anxiety

happymonk:

to measure how well
we spent our days

we find in our hair
later in the evening
little tiny flowers

happymonk:

if you are
reading this
lucky you

you exist

Source: happymonk

happymonk:

the old couple
explained to me
that nowadays they
say i love you to each
other a lot just because
in the near future they
both know they might
not be able to

Source: happymonk

The soft nimble earth
and the ever present air
and the fire in twilight
and the embers of dawn
and the color of the sunset
and the long hues of the sunrise
and the chastity of music
and the hovering hummingbird
reaching out it’s tongue
into the heart of flowers
and the white swan looking
for love over a vast open pond
and the light that mixes
with the darkness
and the sanctity of the dawn
and the stillness of the dawn
and the quiet of the dawn
without sound in the rising
the crackling twigs covered in moss
the old man with the long white
beard saying farewell with a wave
to the young boy with a smile
and the terrible mistake of humankind
to let in the uglyness
to get out into the world and believe
in things that do not exist
to not create but to be under the
spell of illusion, the way a trap is
sprung with something exceedingly sweet
and exceptional, but are empty promises,
hollow hopes that is greed
and are not pure and giving
in the the music of the mind that is
always fleeting, like the visions of the
angels trumpeting with golden horns
from cosmic clouds, to the man who
carries too much reality, like a burdened
donkey, like an uncut diamond, like hemlock,
who goes into the night passed midnight
starving for love, tortured by the highways
and the lonely starstruck nights
of isolating cold and the vast
open fields of sky
and the trees clattering amongst themselves
singing in the breeze, and all the grandeur
we have lost, and all the impossible nothingness to dream
and the idols, and the saints, and the artists,
masters of the forgotten chaos,
the misunderstood reality,
the light blue hues amongst the golden rays,
the flowing river without a name,
or interruption, (the gasp before the sea)
the cars driving, moaning and rattling
and sighing, the endless misery, confusion, and need,
the incense rich monasteries shrouded in mist,
isolated by holiness, filled with Buddhas,
and beads and scrolls of wisdom,
truth unnoticed, passerbyers of the breeze,
the dappling shadows, the coy fish
casting iridescent ripples in the pond
that would not be still without them,
without them there is no meaning,
without them there is no life,
and the bird songs at dawn,
and the bird songs at dusk
and there is no consolation to beauty,
the melting clocks,
the lovers entwined over a bridge
whispering pretty secrets for the sky
to blush and let down her tumbling flowers,
the way in which the sea overflows with diamonds
that ooze and sparkle and dazzle and dance
and then are gone, and the boy with the imaginative
face and the disappearing smile and the love too big for the age,
the way in which a feather falls in the breeze,
effortless, and without a sound, that is how, we should be,
said, the Brahmin in the Elysian fields,
contemplating the naked bodies of June,
and the snowy wheat fields of May,
that the earth should be so beautiful and enormous,
that the earth should bloom in untold multitudes,
that the earth should gives us a voice and a hope
beyond grandeur, or salvation, or need of exit,
as a mirror is but a reflection,
as light is but time and distance,
as a flower is a flower is a flower is a flower,
and nothing more,
the sparkling eyes of all the universe
contained in our eyes and we but a flash
an instance of bliss and love and understanding,
a hope to defy ourselves and overcome created
suffering, to realize, to realize, and awaken
to find the dream unfolded before our eyes
and our gasps of exasperation
and our sighs of release
and our smiling sorrow,
to have before us everything we ever needed
the needle and the thread that goes through all of nature,
sowing it all together
in an all encompassing warm embrace,
singing to us,
everything is gonna be alright,
everything is fine,
everything is gonna be alright,
everything is fine,
meanwhile a sapling tree breaks through the soil
and a man looks up to the sky
and something deep within him stirs
now he understands
now he knows
seeing the birds fly in the sky
feeling the breeze
and smelling the ocean current
makes him feel a tremendous relief,
as if,
everything is gonna be alright,
as if,
everything is gonna be fine.

life

like the grains of sand
on a beach where each
grain of sand is a galaxy
and where even the galaxies
do not know what they are made
of how they are made or what
they make up

the un inspector for
international human rights

said if this gazanian child
was your child, there would
be no war tomorrow

this old anguish
that mankind has
carried around
for who knows
how many
centuries

to measure how well
we spent our days

we find in our hair
later in the evening
little tiny flowers